


touch me if touching's no sin

by cosmya



Series: stumbled beginnings [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Body Swap, M/M, Masturbation, Mirrors, Mutual Pining, Post-Canon, Sexual Repression, Virgin Aziraphale (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 04:17:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20324977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cosmya/pseuds/cosmya
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley decide to stick around in each other's bodies for a little longer than they need to. For Reasons.Sinfulreasons.





	touch me if touching's no sin

**Author's Note:**

> title from _venus_ by sufjan stevens et al, from planetarium (2017)

They hadn’t mentioned having anything unusual in mind when they agreed not to switch back right away.

It was _ just in case _ , Aziraphale had argued. What if they were still being watched? What if they couldn’t switch back without being found out and punished for _ real _ this time? It would be foolish to gamble on the whims of their superiors.

He could never tell Crowley that he had an ulterior motive to staying in the demon’s body for a few more days. And Crowley certainly didn’t seem upset at being locked in Aziraphale longer than he needed to be. In fact, he seemed positively ecstatic.

They’d scurried back to each other’s respective flats in a manner that suggested they couldn’t stand to look at each other any longer. Not suspicious at all.

* * *

It seemed intrusive enough alone for Aziraphale to be laying in Crowley’s bed. Beds themselves were such a weird, intimate thing. One (not Aziraphale of course, but _ one _) spent so much time in them that their unique smell had no choice but to inundate it all. The things they dreamt while wrapped in their comfortable confines often stuck there, forgotten by their waking creator, and even the particularly memorable ones were memorable because of their private and, hopefully, confidential nature. Aziraphale couldn’t relate, and that was something he rarely minded.

But now, sitting in Crowley’s bed and yet absorbing none of whatever Crowley dreamt in it, he wished he could have dreams of his own. Because he _ knew _they would be good.

He didn’t even get to enjoy the scent, because he was so used to Crowley’s by now that it simply smelled like himself. Not that that was a bad thing.

Aziraphale was procrastinating, he knew it. His time in this body was limited, and it would be embarrassing to ask for more after they’d had the chance to ensure that the coast was clear to switch back. But this was entirely new territory for him. It was frightening.

With weak and trembling hands, he slid Crowley’s pants off.

Well, _ tried _ to. They really were tight. It would take far more resolve to do what he had his heart set on doing.

He steeled himself and pulled them off with as much force as he could muster.

Underneath them were disconcertingly baggy boxer shorts. And they were _ tartan. _

Aziraphale laughed quietly to himself, a shaky laugh of mingled anxiety and relief. He felt a little stronger, now. 

But he also had a thought. What if Crowley was presently doing the same thing to him? 

_ No no no no no no. _ That was not something he was going to think about. That made him feel things he was not prepared to feel, and it just seemed like a violation of Crowley’s privacy. Crowley was definitely doing nothing at all out of the ordinary, probably reading a nice, chaste book, and Aziraphale _ really _ needed to stop thinking about this, because if he lost his nerve any more he’d be back at the bookshop and demanding Crowley to take his darned beautiful body back right away.

Nope, Aziraphale needed to do this. It was about time. Six thousand years and never had he touched another.

(Of course, it was only fairly recently that he’d wanted to.)

So he squeezed his eyes shut like something from a horror movie (or perhaps a snake) was about to leap out of the tartan boxers, and took them off as quickly as he could.

Nothing jumped out and bit him in the nose. Slowly, he opened his eyes.

_ It _looked just like his, mostly. Maybe a little smaller. It was hard to tell with it like this. He wrapped his (well, Crowley’s) hand around it. At first, he just wanted to… poke around, maybe. Take a good look, and then be on his way immediately. Check it off the list.

But Crowley’s, well… cock, was… nice, he decided. Another part of him for Aziraphale to love. And maybe hold, or stroke, or taste, or… no no no no. That couldn’t be right. He wasn’t supposed to want those things.

He wasn’t even supposed to want the _ word. Cock. _ He didn’t even like _ thinking _ it. But all the others felt medical, and if Aziraphale wanted medical, he could’ve read a textbook. A textbook that did _ not _use his best friend as a model. A textbook certainly couldn’t accurately describe what he was feeling. A swelling inside of him, a fullness begging to be let out.

There was only one way to deal with that, unfortunately. Or fortunately. Definitely fortunately. What was the use in lying to himself about that anymore?

He trailed his hand up and down Crowley’s cock, watching it expand under his touch and flush with the pulsing blood that he wasn’t supposed to have. And it felt _ good _. With reassured confidence, he grasped it harder, stroking it with a hunger he’d never expected to feel. 

And then he had a better idea. 

He stopped and slid off the bed. He entered Crowley’s never-used bathroom. Aziraphale prayed his running water still worked, because using a miracle to clean the mess he was about to make away seemed downright sacreligious.

Ever the fashionista, Crowley did indeed have a floor-length mirror in his bathroom. Aziraphale stood gingerly in front of it. No half-measures. If he was defiling himself and his best friend like this, he would do it with courage.

Courage, sure, but truthfully, Aziraphale dearly wanted to see Crowley’s face in that borrowed state of transient ecstasy.

He slid off Crowley’s sunglasses and looking at his eyes in the mirror doubled how madly in lust he was feeling. _ Lust! _An angel feeling lust! He was tempted indeed.

His cock was fully hard and leaking clear fluid at this point, and as he caressed it his throat was making stunning little wanting sounds that Aziraphale had never heard coming from it. He put his hand up on the mirror to support himself, for after six thousand years one finds that their composure does not last very long. 

But he was not _ ready _for this. He wanted it to last longer. Forever, maybe. Or at least to have the chance to come back to it whenever he felt himself wanting it once more.

So he slowed, and rubbed Crowley’s thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing around the slippery liquid, and as he did it, even more dribbled out. Breathlessly, Aziraphale lifted his fingers to his lips to taste it.

It was a strange taste, an unfamiliar one, but he decided that he liked it better even than the priciest vintage.

He could wait no longer. His spit-covered fingers returned to Crowley’s cock and rubbed it even more quickly than before, and Aziraphale was downright _ panting _ now, mind clouded and drunk on this new substance. He thought once more of Crowley doing this to him, and then he looked back at the mirror into Crowley’s fiery eyes, and then the most incredible thing happened to him.

It was like the apocalypse had contained itself into his body, and he could not even _ hope _to keep his eyes open or his lips sealed. 

When it was over, he surveyed the damage. He had _ ruined _the mirror. A strange white substance trickled down it and threatened to pool on the floor, sink in the grout, leave a permanent mark that he, Aziraphale, had done Very Bad Things. 

Of course… they were not _ all _ bad. Because he had done the very opposite of whatever _ ruining _is to Crowley. The demon looked more beautiful than Aziraphale had ever seen him look.

He pulled himself together and cleaned off his mess. He showered and scoured his skin red. He pulled back on the tartan boxers and tight pants.

He really, desperately hoped that he could help Crowley to make that face again.

* * *

Crowley felt tense. Caged-in. Like he was carrying several millennia worth of aggregated stress which was threatening to consume his immortal body at any moment.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t stop thinking about what on Earth Aziraphale had been so eager to get away from him to do with his body. Probably the do-goodest of miracles. Going to soup kitchens. Kissing babies. Spreading love and joy and happiness. Just to embarrass him.

No, it couldn’t be that. Hadn’t Aziraphale said this was only to ease his worries that they were being watched? In that case, he must’ve been locked away somewhere. Doing who-knows-what. Somehow, that was worse than the alternative.

He missed him already.

Crowley hadn’t truly meant to fall in love with him. It was an inconvenience, really. It made him do silly things. It got him in trouble.

As penance, he’d vowed to himself to never do anything about it. Aziraphale didn’t want him. Or, at the least, he couldn’t give Crowley what he wanted. The last thing he wanted to do was make Aziraphale uncomfortable. Because then Aziraphale would leave, and definitely avoid him, and then Crowley would be stuck without anybody to love. Without a purpose on this dreadful world. 

Now that he was in Aziraphale’s body, it was only too clear what he was missing out on.

He sat stiffly in an armchair in the bookshop and tried to think pure thoughts. He pulled a book from one of the shelves. He did not even look at the title. But thumbing through it blindly gave him something to do with his hands.

When his thoughts wandered, his fingers wanted to wander, too. Surely Aziraphale didn’t ever touch himself. He probably didn’t even _ look _at it. Showered with his clothes on. Or even just miracled himself clean when he’d felt like it to save the world the absolute humiliation of seeing him naked. Crowley could be his first. 

But that would involve violating his trust. Taking something when he didn’t have permission to. 

He couldn’t do that.

So he waited.

* * *

The key turned hurriedly in the lock. Crowley opened his eyes. He’d been dozing. It was a real pain in the wings to not be able to fall asleep, but even his futile attempts were probably the most rest Aziraphale’s body had gotten in centuries.

His body stood before him, practically humming with joyful energy. Aziraphale was beaming. “Hello,” he breathed.

Oh, no.

Crowley recognized that facial expression.

He knew it well.

You could practically see the afterglow hovering around the demon’s body. “Erm... hi,” Crowley sputtered. Naturally, the words and their respective vocalizations sounded at home using Aziraphale’s voice.

“I’ve discovered something wonderful,” Aziraphale said.

Crowley understood that he most definitely looked shocked. And Aziraphale was not asking him why. “Wonderful,” he repeated, dazed.

“Well, sinful, probably,” he admitted. “But wonderful nonetheless. If you’ll believe it.”

“And it is…?”

Aziraphale ignored the question. “Can I have my body back? I want to see if it will work.”

“If _ what _will work?” Crowley was growing impatient. If Aziraphale wanted something, he would need to ask.

Aziraphale blushed. It was clear that he really wanted to lie, or else forget all of this had ever happened, but wanted _ whatever _ it was that he wanted too badly to contain himself. “Would you… could I…”

“Spit it out!”

“I want. You. To…”

Crowley was beginning to laugh. “To what?”

“Just. You.”

Crowley decided that that was good enough. He stood stodgily from the armchair, miracled them back into their actual bodies, wrapped his arms around the angel, and kissed him.


End file.
